by Marty Chan
“Did Eric’s friends do that?” I asked.
“Duh.”
“Why did they do that to you?”
“Why do you think monkey butt? I’m French and they’re not.”
“Didn’t your friends come to help?”
“No, I was waiting until everyone was gone.”
“I’m sorry, Remi.”
“They said it was for the snowball fight that happened the other day. It wasn’t your fault.”
My stomach knotted up. I had started the fight when I tried to shake off Trina’s freak-a-zoid tour.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.
“I get worse when I play hockey,” Remi mumbled through his fat lip.
I said nothing as Remi tromped up the street. Until now, the French/English war was a stupid battle between guys I didn’t like. But now it claimed Remi as a casualty, and I played a big part in it. I watched my friend limp up the street. I couldn’t stand it.
I ran up to him and confessed, “Remi, it’s my fault. Trina’s tour group was following me. I had to lose them so that I could meet you. I tricked them into charging at the Boissonault brothers. That’s what started the snowball fight. It’s because of me that Eric and his jerks attacked you. I didn’t think they would go that far.”
Remi growled, “Why do you think we call it a war? One day, the Anglais get one of us. The next, the Boissonaults get one of you. Well not you. But them. You know what I mean.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Remi went sulky silent. I tried to get him to yell at me, but he refused to say anything. I apologized a thousand times, but he just glared at me. I tried to change the subject. “So do you know what else I found out about the Night Watchman?”
Remi didn’t speak.
“I think he’s French.”
Remi looked at me. “You think the French are traitors?”
“No, I’m just saying the guy spoke English, but with a French accent.”
“Why would a French man work with aliens?”
“The aliens probably thought the Anglais were too dumb to work with,” I said.
Remi laughed. “You got that right.”
I cracked jokes about the Anglais and how stupid they were. They brightened his mood. I told more Anglais jokes. By the time we reached the barbershop, Remi was in a good mood. He even noted, “You sure know a lot of jokes about the Anglais.”
I nodded. “I guess I was saving them up.”
Remi tried to peer through the barbershop window, but the icy windows blocked our view.
“There’s no way we can see inside,” Remi sighed.
A bold idea hit me. “Come on. I’ve got a plan.”
I walked straight into the barbershop. Warm air blasted against my face and the strong smell of old socks mixed with bleach squirreled up my nose. Like everything else in Bouvier, the shop was small. A red vinyl chair sat in the centre of the room, which meant the barber could only work on one customer at a time. Customers sat and waited on one of two benches against a wall. Between the benches, magazines sprawled across a shaky end table.
Tom, the bald shop owner, trimmed an older man’s brown bangs. On the bench, two old farmers wore John Deere farmer caps. We couldn’t see the colour of their hair.
“Hello, boys,” Tom smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. “Take a seat. I’ll get to you in a snip. Get it? Snip. Barber. Snip.”
The farmers chuckled at Tom’s joke. I nudged Remi and laughed.
“Actually, it’s my friend who needs the haircut,” I said.
“No I don’t.”
I jabbed Remi in the ribs to shut him up.
“He’s scared,” I said.
“No need to worry. I don’t bite. But I just might nip your ear off. Ha, ha.”
One of the farmers leaned forward and whispered, “Why do you think Frank and I wear hats now?”
Remi’s eyes widened. Everyone in the room burst out laughing. I ushered Remi to the other bench and sat down, while the old guys continued talking to Tom about the good old days.
Remi whispered, “This is your plan?”
“Relax. There are two people ahead of you. This will give us time to see if the Night Watchman shows up.”
“I’m not letting Tom touch my hair. I heard he’s so bad at cutting that his own hair won’t grow because it’s scared he might try to cut it.”
“Trust me, Remi.”
I leaned back and listened to the old guys complain about how candy bars used to cost three cents, but now were too expensive. Tom said he hadn’t changed the price of his haircuts in twenty years. The farmers joked that he hadn’t change the style of his haircuts either.
Remi fidgeted beside me. Then, the door swung open and blew cold air inside. A man in a heavy black overcoat, black shoes, a black scarf, and a black toque entered. He spun around to a coat rack and unwrapped his scarf. What luck! We had found the Night Watchman on our first try.
“Hey, Greg,” Tom called out.
The man hung up his scarf and took off his hat to reveal a full head of blond hair. Then he turned around and greeted Tom. He looked much younger than the real Night Watchman.
“Dad, I left you last week and you were working on Eddie’s hair. Is it taking you that long these days?”
Everyone chuckled. The farmers launched into a conversation with Greg, interested in his progress at university. Greg told them he was now studying to be a doctor, but whined that text books had become very expensive. This renewed the farmers’ complaints about how chocolate bars used to cost three cents.
The conversation paused when Tom finished Eddie’s haircut. Eddie climbed out of the red chair and thanked Tom for a great job. His head looked lopsided, but I didn’t say a thing. Eddie waved to the farmers and left the barbershop.
“Okay, you’re next son,” Tom said and pointed his scissors at Remi.
Remi’s mouth dropped open. He motioned to the farmers. “What about them?”
Frank chuckled, “We’re just here for the atmosphere.”
“I changed my mind,” Remi squawked.
Greg laughed, “Hey Dad, it looks like your reputation precedes you.”
The farmers laughed, but Tom scowled at his son.
Tom clucked at Remi. “Young fella, by the time I’m done, you’ll have to beat off the girls with a stick.”
“I don’t like girls,” Remi protested.
This ignited more laughs.
“They might know who the Night Watchman is,” I whispered. “We have to get them to talk.”
Remi didn’t budge from the bench. Meanwhile, Tom swept Eddie’s hair off the chair. Greg sat down beside the farmers and complained about how broke he was.
I interrupted him. “The style of the coats these days. Long black jackets. Don’t see many of them around do you?”
Greg shot me an evil look, but the farmers listed the people who had black coats, while Tom put Remi in the vinyl chair and attached the apron around his neck. The men argued about how dark navy blue was not black. I tried to divide the list into black coats and navy blue coats. Tom claimed that overcoats would never be as warm as down-filled vests. Frank said vests made him look fat.
“If you want to find people with black jackets, just hang out at the IGA,” a frustrated Greg spat.
“Everyone shops there now. Who would shop at the Chinaman’s?”
Everyone stopped talking. Tom glared at his son.
“I like to get my meat from your dad,” Tom grabbed a water bottle and sprayed Remi’s hair.
The farmers launched into a discussion about the best cuts of meat. Tom liked boneless strip loins. The farmers enjoyed T-bones, because they liked to gnaw off the gristle. Tom carelessly waved his scissors around and said bones were for dogs. Then he grabbed a handful of Remi’s bangs and snipped.
Remi yelped and hopped out of the chair. He ripped off his apron, grabbed his jacket and bolted out of the barbershop. The farmers laughed, while Tom shook his head.
<
br /> “I knew I should have put a seat belt in the chair,” he said.
Everyone laughed. I grabbed my jacket as Greg started talking again about his financial problems. I hoped Tom wouldn’t give his son any money.
Outside, Remi paced back and forth in front of the frosted window.
“Look at what he did.” Remi showed me his trimmed bangs. They reminded me of Tom’s uneven smile.
“It’s not that bad,” I lied.
“That was a dumb idea. We didn’t find out anything.”
“Wrong. I learned all the information we need.”
“What do you mean? Do you know who the Night Watchman is?”
“No, but I know where to look for him.”
NINE
While my parents’ store sat deserted on Saturdays, the IGA teemed with more people than a toy store at Christmas. Customers jammed the wide aisles with their overfull shopping carts. Pony-tailed cashiers rang up groceries. The jolly store manager directed traffic and handed out coupons. Scrawny stock boys carried out groceries for an endless line of customers. Sooner or later the Night Watchman had to make his appearance in the store.
“Why wouldn’t he buy his groceries at your parents’ store?” Remi asked. “He got his milk there.”
I said, “It would look suspicious if he only shopped there. Besides, he has to keep his eye on everyone else.”
Remi agreed with my logic. “So he’s like a spy.”
“Yeah. My parents spied on the people who shopped at their store, but now that the IGA is open, they need another spy.”
“Why don’t they do it themselves?”
“Think about it Remi. It would look pretty odd if the owners of the competition shopped here.”
“I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Grab a cart and we’ll pretend to shop,” I ordered.
We filled our cart with cookies, chips, pop, cans of stew, and toilet paper – just about everything in the store. We didn’t plan on buying any of the groceries. We just wanted to blend in with the other shoppers so that we could spy on them.
Mostly women shopped in the store. It was hard to spot any men, let alone the Night Watchman. Still, Remi and I circled the store and tossed random groceries into our cart. By our fifth time past the sweet pickles, a stock boy became suspicious. He stopped facing the pickles we had just walked by and followed us. Remi and I tried to look casual as we jammed more groceries into the few remaining spaces of our overfull cart.
“Need help finding stuff?” the pimply-faced teenager squawked.
“We’re fine,” I replied.
“Yeah,” Remi chimed in.
“Are you shopping for your family?”
We nodded.
“So you’re brothers?”
“Yup,” Remi answered. He glanced at me. “Nope. Maybe.”
The stock boy crossed his arms, waiting for Remi to settle on an answer.
I jumped in quickly, “I’m adopted.”
“Yeah,” said Remi. “So if you don’t mind, we have to finish shopping.”
“I suppose these feminine pads are for one of you?”
We nodded.
“What do you use them for?” the stock boy asked.
“Duh,” said Remi. “If you don’t know, why should we tell you?”
“Call me curious.” He held up the pink package.
“Well,” I said. “They’re for the bathroom.”
I remembered seeing the same package in the bathroom, and I knew that Mom used them, but not all the time. They were special. But what were they for?
“Come on. What do you do with them?” The stock boy snapped.
“Uh, when your face gets really dirty, so dirty that a normal face cloth won’t clean it, you use the pads to wipe the grime off.”
The stock boy laughed. “Not even close.”
Remi shot back, “Oh yeah? Do you know what you use them for?”
“Uh, well, they’re, it’s kinda like . . . hey, you guys aren’t buying groceries. You’re just fooling around!”
I turned to Remi and yelled, “Run!”
He bolted down the aisle, while I shoved the cart over the stock boy’s foot. I zigzagged down the aisle, dodging impatient shoppers. The angry teenager yelled after us. We ignored him. As we rounded the corner, a stock girl near the meat cooler cut us off. Hearing her co-worker’s call for help, she grabbed Remi and me by the back of our shirts. She hauled us down the aisle to the limping stock boy. He thanked her and told her he could handle things from here.
“Okay, that’s enough fooling around,” he said. “I know you’re not buying any of these groceries. Put it all back where you found it.”
We claimed to be serious about shopping, but we shut up when he threatened to call our parents. Remi and I mumbled our apologies and pushed the cart down the aisle. We took our time returning the items to their rightful places so that we could still spy on the shoppers.
By the time our cart was empty, it seemed like everyone in town had passed through the store except the Night Watchman. Remi and I left the store without a single lead.
“He’s got to be in town somewhere,” I said.
“We’ll find him if it takes all day. Well, as long as we finish before six.”
“What happens at six? Do you turn into a pumpkin?” I joked.
“Duh! Hockey Night in Canada is on.”
“So?”
“The Leafs are playing.”
“Who cares about the Leafs at a time like this?”
Remi punched me in the arm so hard that I thought his fist went out the other side. “Never, ever, say that again.”
I rubbed my sore arm. “Okay, okay. We’ll quit so you can see the hockey game.”
“You sure you didn’t dream up this guy?”
“He’s real,” I argued. “He’s got to be in town. He can’t hide forever.”
“Maybe he beamed up to a space ship,” Remi suggested.
“He’s not an alien. He’s a human, and he’ll show up sooner or later.”
“We could watch Main Street. Everyone walks down Main Street on Saturdays.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Remi tapped the side of his head and claimed, “Not just for cracking walnuts.”
“Huh?”
“Just keep your eyes open,” Remi said.
Very soon however, we discovered the fatal flaw in Remi’s plan. Main Street offered no shelter from the icy winter wind. We stomped our feet to pound feeling into them, and we hugged ourselves to make sure our arms didn’t go numb. All the while, no one resembling the Night Watchman walked down the block.
When the sun started to set, Remi began to fidget and check his watch. He wanted to give up for the day, but I told him that Hockey Night in Canada wasn’t starting for another two hours. However, the crowd dwindled and still no Night Watchman.
Suddenly, Remi cried out. He pointed to the Sears outlet store. A man in a long black jacket stepped out of the shop. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but it might have been him. We chased after the man, until I saw his white sneakers. As we got closer, I also noticed he stood much shorter than the Night Watchman. Remi and I let this guy go.
“There’s another one,” Remi shouted.
Another man in a black overcoat left the Sears outlet. He was too big. Another man stepped out of the store. He was too young. I started to feel like Goldilocks looking for just the right bowl of porridge.
“Maybe they’re all Night Watchmen,” Remi suggested.
The Sears outlet seemed to have more than its fair share of men in long black jackets, but what did a clothing store have to do with alien invasions? I had to know. I crept closer. In the shop’s display window, a mannequin dressed in a long black jacket stood beside a discount sign. We were getting nowhere with our investigation, and Remi wanted to get home to see his game.
“We’re not gonna find the Night Watchman today,” he complained.
“I guess we can try again tomorro
w.”
“Good idea. We’ll start fresh. Do you want to come over to my place and watch the hockey game?”
No one had ever asked me over to their house. I was thrilled at the idea of watching television at Remi’s place. Maybe his mom would let me eat popcorn or put my feet up on the couch.
“I have to ask my parents first,” I said.
“Give me a call when you find out.”
Remi rattled off his phone number and headed down the street. I tried to replay the number in my mind, but he spoke too fast. I called after him to tell me his number again. What I saw choked the words out of my mouth.
The Night Watchman walked on the other side of the street. Not only did he have black clothes, but he also had grey hair. I ran after Remi and grabbed his jacket.
“Hey, watch it! My jacket’s ripped enough already.”
“I think it’s him,” I whispered.
“Who?”
“Him.” I pointed at the Night Watchman across the street. I saw his face. He was definitely the man who talked to my dad about the alien invasion.
“We have to follow him,” I blurted out.
“But the hockey game is about to start.”
“What’s more important? The safety of the planet or a Leafs’ game?”
Before he could answer, I pushed Remi after the Night Watchman.
“He looks familiar,” he said as we jogged behind the old man.
“Duh.” I finally got a chance to use Remi’s comeback. “I described him to you.”
“Watch it, monkey butt,” he warned.
“Maybe you saw him at one of your hockey games.”
“No, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before,” Remi said. “I gotta get a better look at his face.”
The Night Watchman walked to the giant brick church. He took out keys and opened the huge wooden cathedral doors. He glanced back before he stepped inside, giving us a clear view of his face.
“I know who that is,” Remi blurted.
“No way. Who is he?”
“That’s Father Sasseville.”
“Who?”
“The priest!”
TEN
